


never been happier to lose a fight

by maggierachael



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (as always), Boba Fett & Fennec Shand (Background), Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mandomera Week 2021, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Reunions, Vulnerability, Winta (mentioned) - Freeform, aka Omera Is Wonderfully Accepting, everybody say thank you to the mandomera week mods for finally giving me inspo, god HOW did it take me this long to write these two, literally inspired by a small piece of a mandomera dream i had, we love random inspiration!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29962065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggierachael/pseuds/maggierachael
Summary: Mandomera Week — Day 3: Reunions___She didn’t like how unsure this felt. How something — someone — so familiar could make her chest seize up with uncertainty. Make her run despite knowing it would leave her hardly able to walk later. Throw everything she’d done to go back to the way things had been out an airlock — all for whatever was happening in this particular moment. No one could make her feel like that, so why him? Why now? Why in front of everyone, friends and strangers alike?Sorgan wasn’t perfect, but people visited for a reason.She wondered what his reason was.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Mandomera Week 2021





	never been happier to lose a fight

**Author's Note:**

> _Where has the time gone?  
>  I've become less certain by the day  
> But running into you like this  
> Made me feel something real, don't want it to go away..._
> 
> -"Without You", Joseph

It was a sunny day when he landed in the eastern fields. 

Calm, and breezy. Summer was coming soon, on the heels of a long, rainy spring. It was a good day, all things considered. The children were playing, and doors were thrown open. Long-awaited change was coming on the wind, on the way it curled the leaves of the trees and rustled the edges of womens’ skirts. 

The valley was serene. It suited most people, traders and villagers alike. It was no Coruscant, but there was something about it. Something that leached all the worry from your bones, took everything that didn’t serve you and sent it back out into the universe. Sorgan wasn’t perfect, not by far, but people visited for a reason. They hardly ever came without one. 

The others couldn’t find her at first. She’d been busy at the lake, washing and mending and taking care of the children. It was Winta who heard them, young ears sharper than her mother’s aging ones. Shouts of, “Omera! Omera!” floating across the breeze — notes of concern and excitement tinging their faint voices in turn. She’d tugged on her mother’s skirts, pointing over the crest of the hill. Back towards the village, where the clouds had parted and vapor trails swirled about the trees like tinsel. The distinct impressions of a ship having landed. 

Ships arrived all the time. Left too. They were Outer Rim, but it wasn’t unheard of. The New Republic had changed things. Made it so that the Outer Rim wasn’t the end of the world. People liked it there, whatever their reasons for arriving were. They were no major port, but they got their fair share of visitors. 

As did she. They trusted her, to be the one to handle problems, to smooth out wrinkled edges and take care of business. Her, a widow and a mother, whose hands had begun to ache and whose dreams were clouded with stuff and nonsense. She was who they went to, come hell or high water. An odd circumstance, but one they’d come to accept — particularly when it came to strangers on their land. 

But this was more than that. 

She knew. 

Before they said anything, she knew. 

She needed to see if it was true. 

Winta took off before she’d even decided to move, and some small part of her was relieved for the excuse to move, abandoning laundry in a way that would’ve left her crimson all over any other day. The little girl was fast, her hood billowing behind her like a tiny green orbak as she sprinted away from the lake. She’d left her shoes, and Omera barely had the thought to replace her own before taking off after her. 

It wasn’t graceful. She was too old for that. It was sprinting, the way her father had taught her in case of danger. Arms tucked to her sides, conspicuous as ever. Why is she running? She need not bother. Whatever is there — whatever she thinks is there — will still be there upon her arrival. Parked in much the same place as it was before, idling like a soldier waiting for instructions. 

She can’t believe she didn’t hear it. When had she stopped listening, stopped paying attention to every change of the wind, just in case it made a difference? Just in case her hopes had been proven true? She hated to call them that, but it’s what they were — hopes, stored away in the back of her heart, behind the rotting boxes and old fishing equipment. Waiting for someone to dig them out, polish them and present them as truth, despite all probability otherwise. 

Of course it happens when she least expects it. It had the first time. 

And she’d never had the luck of the draw. 

It’s a long distance back to the village. Longer than she was used to running, anyway. Her bones were old — too old for something so rash. Something fueled by those shining little hopes, peeking out between the bars of her heart. She can see them stare — _ the old woman’s gone off it now, look at her _ — but the looks bounce right off. Shot off into space as she’s pulled along, running like the vapor trails are a fishing line pulling her in. 

Running. 

Running. 

Running. 

Her legs hurt, but she cannot stop them. Couldn’t if she tried. They were part of a woman possessed. 

Running. 

Running. 

Running. 

And then, colliding. 

She didn’t mean to do it. She skidded, across the mud and the dew from the last rainstorm. Lost command of her legs, still moving out of her control. Couldn’t stop until something did it for her, metal clanging against the hollow core of her chest. Ringing like a bell in the far off distance, a sound too manufactured for the dense greenery of a place like Sorgan. She is arrested in place, knowing it’s going to hurt her aching back when she lands on the—

The metal catches her. Braces at her back, against her elbow and where her hair meets the curve of her spine. Keeps her from slipping into the grime of the earth, adding to the stains already darkening her hands and wrists. It keeps her upright, and from making an even bigger fool of herself. It steadies her as the muddy ground sways unevenly under her, and shocks her back to reality with its coldness. 

She hadn’t fallen. Hadn’t caught up with Winta either. What had happened? She was stuck in limbo, in the awkward space of recovering her senses. The metal was stiff against her arms, but not binding. Loose enough to move, to find her footing as she gazed around. Beyond her, to the very edges of the village, bustling with activity despite what she’d just done — she hadn’t run as far as she’d thought. 

Her gaze moved back, to the shape of the metal holding her, and what connected to it. More metal, she found. Pieces, in plates. Smooth, as though brand new. Connecting like a jigsaw puzzle, leading up to a face. A face, but not a face. A slit in a piece of beskar, in the place where eyes and a mouth should be. Cheekbones carved out of shining silver, a metal jawline as hard as a rock. A gaze just slightly off-kilter — a sign pointing to something living underneath. A face that hid another face. One that lived its days encased in cold, hard metal. 

So she had been right then. 

He was exactly the same as before. Time had seemingly not passed for him, not permitted him to move beyond the point when he’d last seen her. Tall, proud, stoic. Shining like the stars on a clear night, like the lights she’d seen long ago, on a barely remembered orbit of the Inner Rim. Sturdy. Like nothing in the universe could touch him even if they tried. 

(Oh, if only she knew.) 

Her eyes drifted, past the face, to the world beyond their silent vacuum of a reunion. (If you could call it that.) A new man stood with him — just behind him, silent as the night. Arms crossed. Visor tipped in her direction. One she didn’t know, but felt as though she did. Same armor, but worn. Dents in his chest plate, layers of paint hiding still-visible scratch marks. Green and red to a familiar silver and brown. A relative? A friend? She didn’t know. Wasn’t sure she wanted to. But he said nothing, so she did the same. She didn’t know if she could produce words if he had, in any case. 

There is a comfort in the silence they share, punctuated only by the sounds of the birds and the drone of life moving on around them. They’re in the middle of the village, she noticed — nowhere near where ships could land. Had they walked? Taken a speeder? She didn’t see one anywhere. Her senses had tunnel-visioned, honed in on the silver diamond holding pieces of a chest plate together. She didn’t dare move and shatter the moment, didn’t dare ask questions, or offer greetings, or even speak, for fear of what might spill out. 

She didn’t like how unsure this felt. How something — someone — so familiar could make her chest seize up with uncertainty. Make her run despite knowing it would leave her hardly able to walk later. Throw everything she’d done to go back to the way things had been out an airlock — all for whatever was happening in this particular moment. No one could make her feel like that, so why him? Why now? Why in front of everyone, friends and strangers alike? 

Sorgan wasn’t perfect, but people visited for a reason. 

She wondered what his reason was. 

He’s missing a pauldron, she notices. Is he hurt? Did something happen? Is this merely a warning, another sign to clutch to the blaster stowed just under the edge of her cot? Something clutches at the back of her throat, makes words impossible. All she does is flail, watch her hands flit about like insects around the shining metal of his armor. The desire to touch, to check him over, hampered by memories of the last time. Something squeezes in her chest, takes hold of her heart and threatens to pull it out through her throat. Lay it at his feet, dirty and stained from the same mud she slipped in. 

This is not what she should be doing with him. She hardly knows him. They’re strangers, if you put it down to pat. 

And yet. 

She notices her daughter, standing just behind the new man. With a woman. Not the same one as before. Older. Hardened. A bounty hunter? Perhaps. This was the kind of company he must be used to. People of his own kind. Not her. 

But then why would he have come? 

She can feel the hand at her back move, gently release the grip keeping her from hitting the ground. Her knees feel weak —  _ don’t let go _ — but she straightens her back as he tips his visor silently at her. Speaking without needing words. His people seemed good at that. 

_ Over here. Away from everyone.  _

She should not agree. She can see their blasters. One of them has her daughter. This is foolish. 

But she had been foolish the last time. Had she not, she might not be standing here now. 

She nods to her daughter — “go, with the other children” — and finds her balance against the ground. Not an easy task in the mud, but she manages it. Winta seems unbothered, more excited to show off to new arrivals than anything. (What her excitement about blasters and armor said about her was something her mother would worry about later.) She takes off towards the village, the arm of a fierce warrior dragging behind her. 

The other man chuckles. He seems unbothered by all of this, though he offers no explanation. That seems to be the order of the day, as he turns on his heels and follows after them. For an instant, Omera’s heart jumps in her chest, and as she turns in the opposite direction, she prays that nothing will end up being set on fire. 

She takes him to the far end of the village. Towards the huts, the ones that now lay empty as spring approached. Still littered with boxes, remnants of food stored away for when the harvest was bad. Empty, and undisturbed. A place for conversations, and secrecy, and discoveries. Exactly what they need.

There is one at the far end, its door hanging slightly off its hinges from the last bad storm. That is where she takes him, ducking her head inside and beckoning him in. He says nothing, and the squash of the mud against their feet makes the sound of a thousand seismic bombs. She worries she may have chosen poorly, but something in the heaviness of his step — the way it keeps in line with hers, rhythmic as the beat of a drum — makes her trust him. Trust whatever this is, without explanation. 

It is quiet inside. The reeds dampen the noise, the drone of insects and the cadence of familiar voices. She does not speak, for fear the reeds may swallow her words before they reach him. She does not know what she would say in any case. Why are you here? Has something happened? What is going on? Should I be afraid? 

No, she cannot feel fear in that moment. Cannot feel its presence in his heart, in the way he stands awkwardly by the door, as if waiting for permission. He is as he was before — a stranger in a strange land. Unsure, not afraid. Waiting for the right moment.

It isn’t until she hears a soft hiss that she begins to understand. 

His movements are slow, deliberate. Treating what he is about to with respect reserved for only the most holy of actions. His hands move, and for a moment, she thinks it is towards his blaster. But no, they skate past — above his waist, elbows bending, up to the helmet that makes him who he is. They press down against the sides of the false face, and begin to move. She sees the beginnings of a neck, swathed in fabric, and the prospect of the real face underneath lodges her heart in the middle of her throat. 

She wants to stop him, reverse the way things had gone before. Does he feel obligated to her? Like he owes her something? Is this repayment for what had happened before? Has something happened to the vow he had made? She hopes desperately not. 

Her hands move of their own accord, covering his before she can think better of it. Closing the distance between them to halt his motions. Too close, but her brain processes none of it. Not the feeling of his chestplate brushing her dress, or the way she nearly steps on his feet to arrive there. A rash move, but a necessary one., she thinks as her palms cover his fingers. If he thinks ill of her, so be it. 

He does not owe her anything. He’s given her enough already. 

There is not enough air to breathe in the space between them. Not for both of them, and she holds her breath. Refuses to exhale until he does. Until he responds, does  _ something _ . A man without a face frozen where he stands is nothing short of unsettling, and seconds pass as hours as she waits for him to move. 

He does not for a long beat — whether from shock or from anger, she does not want to know. They’re too close, both for comfort and for propriety, but neither of them move. She can feel the hard ridges on his gloves, worn down just slightly from years of use, and the edges of his braces dig into her own wrists. Everything feels sharper, clearer, under the fear of what might happen next. Her awareness is heightened as though  _ she _ is the one wearing the helmet, which only makes it worse when his wrists rotate and he moves her hands away. 

_ You do not owe me this. Please.  _

She wants to protest, but she cannot, her vocal chords reduced to ash. The better part of her wants to smack him, remind him of what he’d said to her, but it is locked away, caged in the back of her brain as he takes a step away. He has all the power as her hands fall to her sides, and she watches with trepidation in her stomach as the false face finally washes itself away.

He has brown eyes. Soft eyes, like hers. Eyes that have seen a great deal. Too much, perhaps. Of that she has no doubt. They have bags under them, and bruises where the helmet has knocked into him one too many times. His hair is messy, has not been cut in months. It falls in front of those sad eyes, draws attention to a mouth trained downward. It is a face that is happy to be doing what he’s doing — but not sad to be either. It hovers in some in-between space, some ether that floats between the two of them as she takes in the face of the man who helped save her life. 

She sees something in that face. Something she recognizes, refracted from within her own heart. As familiar as she can get from a man who wraps himself in cold, emotionless metal. She does not know why he is showing it to her now. Why today, in this hour, in this way. He has yet to speak, and she wonders if he ever will. All he can seem to do is look — at her, through her, as if taking in what he’s just done as much as she has. Taking in where he is, who he is. What has led him to this point.

It’s then that she notices. No child. No toddling little baby, no floating bassinet alongside him. No gurgling, or cooing, or clinging to the edges of everyone’s clothing, begging to be picked up and cradled. No big, flopping ears, or the sound of tenderness made tinny by the filter of a modulator. She cannot believe she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t picked up on the complete disappearance of the child’s existence — aside from a tiny, claw-shaped scratch on the top of his chestplate. 

She looks away, wondering what this must mean, for his arrival and for him. Had he done as he’d promised? Found a place for the boy, away from him? Away from a life lived between places, in the cargo holds of ships, never knowing where the next meal would come from? Had he completed his mission, and simply stopped off as some last-minute favor?

Surely not. This is not the face of a content man, a man who’d fulfilled his duty and come out the other end whole. He looks too lived-in, too weighed down by the consequences of whatever had led him here. There is a heaviness to him, in the way his shoulders sag more without the pauldrons than they ever had with them. The way she knows his muscles are tensed under all those layers of fabric — the same as hers had been when Winta had fallen out of a tree, sick with fever for days after they’d reset her broken arm. When she’d been worried to the point of being ill herself, over something she had virtually no control over. 

It was the posture of a father, as loath as he might be to admit to it. A worried father — a scared one, if she were to hazard a risky guess. The boy is gone, and it is eating at him, for reasons she does not know. May never know, if he chooses to hold on to them. They are not hers to own, to use as pawns in this strategic game she knows she’s playing with him. She has her own secret pieces, and he has his. 

But she knows the heartache of a parent when she sees it. 

His shoulders slump, and whether it is in relief or in distress, she cannot tell. Something is missing, the piece that keeps him standing tall against everything thrown at him. She can see the man from before, who had moved without hesitation to help another. But he is tired. Worn out by another part of his past, far more recent — and with much bigger teeth. 

She looks back at his eyes. 

They look broken. 

She wants nothing more than to fix them. 

He does not need to say anything. Nor does she. They may not have words for a long while. Words do nothing to surmise how this feels. What had happened between them. What will happen. There is no certainty. No guarantee. Nothing is promised from now on, and she does not know where they will go from here. There is no going back, the path burned with a sparkling flare, and the path forward is murky. Clogged with fear, and uncertainty, and every negative idea that they can conjure in their overwhelmed heads. 

But where there is darkness, it is always followed by dawn. 

Her eyes stay locked on his as she steps back into that space, into the void he’d made to show her who he really is. Her movements are slow, deliberate. This is still a holy moment. There is no altar but the space between them, the dirt under their feet and the helmet marking the space between their sternums. It looks so much smaller, in his hands. Like nothing of import, not a thing that had kept him hidden from the world for so, so long. 

Gently, her hands wrap around it. The metal is cold, despite the warmth of the day, and it feels heavy. Sturdy. A labor of love, smoother than any piece of silver. It feels immaculate against her hands, well-cared for and well built. This is no Coruscanti market find. 

He freezes, and for a moment she fears making a mistake. Overstepping her bounds, because she still does not understand. 

But then his grip releases, and she is left holding his soul in her hands. 

She had tried this once, a long time ago. He had denied her then, and she had acquiesced. Why the tables had turned, she didn’t know. What had led him here, why he’d trusted her with this, would remain a secret, tucked away underneath the smooth piece of beskar she now holds in her grasp. 

She sets it aside, with as much care as she would a newborn child, and looks back at him. She cannot form them into words, but she hopes he can see the thoughts in her eyes. What is catching in her throat as she looks at him, at this tired, world-weary man who has trusted her with his greatest secret. 

_ This is not your home _ , those eyes say _. But it can be for a while. _

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this just under the wire in time for #MandomeraWeek2021! Super excited to participate, and to finally get to write one of biggest ride or die couples. (I said their reunion would be too sad for me to write, but then Dream Brain gave me an image and I couldn't stop until I'd fleshed it out. Oops.) Make sure to check out the rest of the collection for more works, and [@mandomeraweek](https://mandomeraweek.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for non-fic ship content!


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